IV

Leila had come and gone, and they had had their talk. It had not lasted

as long as Mrs. Lidcote wished, for in the middle of it Leila had been

summoned to the telephone to receive an important message from town, and

had sent word to her mother that she couldn't come back just then,

as one of the young ladies had been called away unexpectedly and

arrangements had to be made for her departure. But the mother and

daughter had had almost an hour together, and Mrs. Lidcote was happy.

She had never seen Leila so tender, so solicitous. The only thing that

troubled her was the very excess of this solicitude, the exaggerated

expression of her daughter's annoyance that their first moments together

should have been marred by the presence of strangers.

"Not strangers to me, darling, since they're friends of yours," her

mother had assured her.

"Yes; but I know your feeling, you queer wild mother. I know how you've

always hated people." (_Hated people!_ Had Leila forgotten why?)

"And that's why I told Susy that if you preferred to go with her to

Ridgefield on Sunday I should perfectly understand, and patiently wait

for our good hug. But you didn't really mind them at luncheon, did you,

dearest?"

Mrs. Lidcote, at that, had suddenly thrown a startled look at her

daughter. "I don't mind things of that kind any longer," she had simply

answered.

"But that doesn't console me for having exposed you to the bother of it,

for having let you come here when I ought to have _ordered_ you off to

Ridgefield with Susy. If Susy hadn't been stupid she'd have made you go

there with her. I hate to think of you up here all alone."

Again Mrs. Lidcote tried to read something more than a rather obtuse

devotion in her daughter's radiant gaze. "I'm glad to have had a rest

this afternoon, dear; and later--"

"Oh, yes, later, when all this fuss is over, we'll more than make up for

it, sha'n't we, you precious darling?" And at this point Leila had been

summoned to the telephone, leaving Mrs. Lidcote to her conjectures.

These were still floating before her in cloudy uncertainty when Miss

Suffern tapped at the door.

"You've come to take me down to tea? I'd forgotten how late it was,"

Mrs. Lidcote exclaimed.

Miss Suffern, a plump peering little woman, with prim hair and a

conciliatory smile, nervously adjusted the pendent bugles of her

elaborate black dress. Miss Suffern was always in mourning, and always

commemorating the demise of distant relatives by wearing the discarded

wardrobe of their next of kin. "It isn't _exactly_ mourning," she would

say; "but it's the only stitch of black poor Julia had--and of course

George was only my mother's step-cousin."

As she came forward Mrs. Lidcote found herself humorously wondering

whether she were mourning Horace Pursh's divorce in one of his mother's

old black satins.

"Oh, _did_ you mean to go down for tea?" Susy Suffern peered at her, a

little fluttered. "Leila sent me up to keep you company. She thought it

would be cozier for you to stay here. She was afraid you were feeling

rather tired."

"I was; but I've had the whole afternoon to rest in. And this wonderful

sofa to help me."

"Leila told me to tell you that she'd rush up for a minute before

dinner, after everybody had arrived; but the train is always dreadfully

late. She's in despair at not giving you a sitting-room; she wanted to

know if I thought you really minded."

"Of course I don't mind. It's not like Leila to think I should." Mrs.

Lidcote drew aside to make way for the housemaid, who appeared in the

doorway bearing a table spread with a bewildering variety of tea-cakes.

"Leila saw to it herself," Miss Suffern murmured as the door closed.

"Her one idea is that you should feel happy here."

It struck Mrs. Lidcote as one more mark of the subverted state of

things that her daughter's solicitude should find expression in the

multiplicity of sandwiches and the piping-hotness of muffins; but then

everything that had happened since her arrival seemed to increase her

confusion.

The note of a motor-horn down the drive gave another turn to her

thoughts. "Are those the new arrivals already?" she asked.

"Oh, dear, no; they won't be here till after seven." Miss Suffern

craned her head from the window to catch a glimpse of the motor. "It

must be Charlotte leaving."

"Was it the little Wynn girl who was called away in a hurry? I hope it's

not on account of illness."

"Oh, no; I believe there was some mistake about dates. Her mother

telephoned her that she was expected at the Stepleys, at Fishkill, and

she had to be rushed over to Albany to catch a train."

Mrs. Lidcote meditated. "I'm sorry. She's a charming young thing. I

hoped I should have another talk with her this evening after dinner."

"Yes; it's too bad." Miss Suffern's gaze grew vague.

"You _do_ look tired, you know," she continued, seating herself at

the tea-table and preparing to dispense its delicacies. "You must go

straight back to your sofa and let me wait on you. The excitement has

told on you more than you think, and you mustn't fight against it any

longer. Just stay quietly up here and let yourself go. You'll have Leila

to yourself on Monday."

Mrs. Lidcote received the tea-cup which her cousin proffered, but showed

no other disposition to obey her injunctions. For a moment she stirred

her tea in silence; then she asked: "Is it your idea that I should stay

quietly up here till Monday?"

Miss Suffern set down her cup with a gesture so sudden that it

endangered an adjacent plate of scones. When she had assured herself of

the safety of the scones she looked up with a fluttered laugh. "Perhaps,

dear, by to-morrow you'll be feeling differently. The air here, you

know--"

"Yes, I know." Mrs. Lidcote bent forward to help herself to a scone.

"Who's arriving this evening?" she asked.

Miss Suffern frowned and peered. "You know my wretched head for names.

Leila told me--but there are so many--"

"So many? She didn't tell me she expected a big party."

"Oh, not big: but rather outside of her little group. And of course, as

it's the first time, she's a little excited at having the older set."

"The older set? Our contemporaries, you mean?"

"Why--yes." Miss Suffern paused as if to gather herself up for a leap.

"The Ashton Gileses," she brought out.

"The Ashton Gileses? Really? I shall be glad to see Mary Giles again. It

must be eighteen years," said Mrs. Lidcote steadily.

"Yes," Miss Suffern gasped, precipitately refilling her cup.

"The Ashton Gileses; and who else?"

"Well, the Sam Fresbies. But the most important person, of course, is

Mrs. Lorin Boulger."

"Mrs. Boulger? Leila didn't tell me she was coming."

"Didn't she? I suppose she forgot everything when she saw you. But the

party was got up for Mrs. Boulger. You see, it's very important that she

should--well, take a fancy to Leila and Wilbour; his being appointed

to Rome virtually depends on it. And you know Leila insists on Rome in

order to be near you. So she asked Mary Giles, who's intimate with the

Boulgers, if the visit couldn't possibly be arranged; and Mary's cable

caught Mrs. Boulger at Cherbourg. She's to be only a fortnight in

America; and getting her to come directly here was rather a triumph."

"Yes; I see it was," said Mrs. Lidcote.

"You know, she's rather--rather fussy; and Mary was a little doubtful

if--"

"If she would, on account of Leila?" Mrs. Lidcote murmured.

"Well, yes. In her official position. But luckily she's a friend of the

Barkleys. And finding the Gileses and Fresbies here will make it all

right. The times have changed!" Susy Suffern indulgently summed up.

Mrs. Lidcote smiled. "Yes; a few years ago it would have seemed

improbable that I should ever again be dining with Mary Giles and

Harriet Fresbie and Mrs. Lorin Boulger."

Miss Suffern did not at the moment seem disposed to enlarge upon this

theme; and after an interval of silence Mrs. Lidcote suddenly resumed:

"Do they know I'm here, by the way?"

The effect of her question was to produce in Miss Suffern an exaggerated

access of peering and frowning. She twitched the tea-things about,

fingered her bugles, and, looking at the clock, exclaimed amazedly:

"Mercy! Is it seven already?"

"Not that it can make any difference, I suppose," Mrs. Lidcote

continued. "But did Leila tell them I was coming?"

Miss Suffern looked at her with pain. "Why, you don't suppose, dearest,

that Leila would do anything--"

Mrs. Lidcote went on: "For, of course, it's of the first importance, as

you say, that Mrs. Lorin Boulger should be favorably impressed, in order

that Wilbour may have the best possible chance of getting Borne."

"I _told_ Leila you'd feel that, dear. You see, it's actually on _your_

account--so that they may get a post near you--that Leila invited Mrs.

Boulger."

"Yes, I see that." Mrs. Lidcote, abruptly rising from her seat, turned

her eyes to the clock. "But, as you say, it's getting late. Oughtn't we

to dress for dinner?"

Miss Suffern, at the suggestion, stood up also, an agitated hand

among her bugles. "I do wish I could persuade you to stay up here this

evening. I'm sure Leila'd be happier if you would. Really, you're much

too tired to come down."

"What nonsense, Susy!" Mrs. Lidcote spoke with a sudden sharpness, her

hand stretched to the bell. "When do we dine? At half-past eight? Then I

must really send you packing. At my age it takes time to dress."

Miss Suffern, thus projected toward the threshold, lingered there to

repeat: "Leila'll never forgive herself if you make an effort you're not

up to." But Mrs. Lidcote smiled on her without answering, and the icy

lightwave propelled her through the door.

V

Mrs. Lidcote, though she had made the gesture of ringing for her maid,

had not done so.

When the door closed, she continued to stand motionless in the middle

of her soft spacious room. The fire which had been kindled at twilight

danced on the brightness of silver and mirrors and sober gilding; and

the sofa toward which she had been urged by Miss Suffern heaped up

its cushions in inviting proximity to a table laden with new books and

papers. She could not recall having ever been more luxuriously housed,

or having ever had so strange a sense of being out alone, under the

night, in a windbeaten plain. She sat down by the fire and thought.

A knock on the door made her lift her head, and she saw her daughter

on the threshold. The intricate ordering of Leila's fair hair and the

flying folds of her dressinggown showed that she had interrupted her

dressing to hasten to her mother; but once in the room she paused a

moment, smiling uncertainly, as though she had forgotten the object of

her haste.

Mrs. Lidcote rose to her feet. "Time to dress, dearest? Don't scold! I

shan't be late."

"To dress?" Leila stood before her with a puzzled look. "Why, I thought,

dear--I mean, I hoped you'd decided just to stay here quietly and rest."